


Luna del Mar

by zaffrenotes



Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship, No Dialogue, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27361015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffrenotes/pseuds/zaffrenotes
Summary: An "extended scene" aboard the Sun Maiden in Chapter 4, where Female Elf MC shares a moment with Mal Volari.
Relationships: Mal Volari/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Kudos: 1





	Luna del Mar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brightpinkpeppercorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightpinkpeppercorn/gifts).



She moves with deft precision, taking care not to rouse Tyril. The Mage breathes in, slow and deep, clutching her half of the sack of grain they shared for a pillow in his arms as she sits up. Their combined movements are so swift it almost looks choreographed. She hunches her shoulders to keep from hitting the bunk above her. After pausing a moment to hear Tyril exhale and watching him burrow his face into the pillow, she rises to join Mal as he keeps watch.

He’s tired. The squall kept the crew busy for hours, tying down rigging and bailing water as massive waves crashed into the ship’s sides and onto the deck. She and Nia did what they could to keep things from crashing about in their makeshift quarters below deck, trying not to lose their dinner on the wooden floors in the process. The lilac half-moons under Mal’s eyes turn violet in the candlelight, and shadows play across his face.

She joins him at the improvised table, crammed against the side of the ship; a sliver of cool moonlight through the porthole window wars with the warm glow of the candle’s flame. She slides onto the empty barrel-turned-seat and looks across the space to him, then to the bunks. Their companions sleep soundly; the ship creaks and groans as it slices through the water that surrounds them. Mal’s eyes follow hers to the bunks, right to where she’d been laying mere moments ago, before he tips his head down and glances up to meet her gaze. His lips pucker into a disapproving smirk, rosewood eyes flashing with jealousy, just as they did earlier in the evening, when she teased the Mage with an offer to share her bed.

She pauses to say something to him and explain she meant little of the offer, other than to get a rise out of their newest companion. She never considered he would agree to share the small space. Her mouth slackens to speak, but the words won’t come; she doesn’t know what to say or how to start. She doesn’t know how to say she wanted to share the space with him, and not Tyril. 

His smirk turns into a knowing grin as the candle flickers, cheeks turning up, and his eyes warm on hers once again, twinkling brighter than any of the stars in the sky. He presses a solitary finger to his lips, tapping at them thrice, before tilting his head to the others.

They play on small, silent gestures; he shakes his head, she bows hers in thanks. He retrieves a glass bottle tied with leather straps from a hook along the wall, uncorking it before offering it to her. Water sloshes inside, and she shakes her head side to side in decline; she’s not sure if she can hold anything down and would rather wait until morning light. He shrugs, then tilts his head back to pour some of the liquid down his throat. She watches his Adam’s apple bob while he drinks, wondering what it would feel like to nuzzle against him. She averts her eyes as he pops the cork in place and sets the bottle to hang from its hook once more.

His eyes are trained on hers when he leans down to one side, searching with one hand for something in his pack. Through the loose strands of hair that fall across his face, his eyes never leave hers; she can feel her knees buckle, and she’d swoon were she not already firmly seated. With another small grin directed at her, he sways like kelp floating in the water, rising back to a sitting position, one hand curled around something bound in leather.

She watches with curiosity as he unties the thin leather straps holding it together with care, wondering what it would feel like to have his nimble fingers work the same way to unlace her garments. It’s her turn for eyes to sparkle as Mal unfurls the leather to reveal a set of small knives with smooth, round handles. She grins and tucks her bottom lip behind her teeth, edging forward in her seat, hoping for a lesson in daggers.

Her eager grin melts into a soft smile as Mal reaches down and retrieves a small piece of wood from his pack. Parts of it are roughly hewn, the pale malleable wood exposed underneath the darker, rougher bark. With knowing precision, his fingers dance across the seemingly identical blades until he pulls one back from its leather sheath.

Miniature steel betwixt nimble fingers, he twirls the blade and grins across the table, before setting to work, carving the wood. She watches, entranced, flames flickering across his olive skin while he presses the blade into the wood, chips falling onto the table like rough snow.

Several minutes pass in silence, save for the sounds around them. Wood creaking, water lapping, muffled footfalls above them from someone else on watch. Soft, high-pitched purring from the top bunk. Her attention lays with him as he works the wood into a shape, his eyes searching for some form she can’t see. All she sees are the tiny movements as he squints in the amber light, his thumb against the wood as the tiny blade slices through his chosen medium, one step closer to…something.

The outer corner of his eye crinkles while maneuvering the blade a certain way; his cheek twitches beneath what she surmises to be coarse beard hair, controlling the force with which he digs into the wood. Her own elven senses can hear the way his breathing changes, anticipatory, when he hits a stride in his efforts and something starts to take shape.

She’s surprised when he sets the wood and steel down and leans down to reach for his pack again, smiling softly once more when he proffers a roughly cut block of wood to her. Fingertips graze his palm as she accepts his offering, and her center warms. The miniscule collision of skin on skin does something to him as well; amid the quiet din of nighttime noises, it’s his heartbeat she hears, thrumming as fast as her own.

He makes a noise between a sigh and a hum, before shirking his hand back and raking it through a mane she wishes to explore with her own fingers. She wants to learn the curves of his skin, to run her nails against his scalp, to tug the honeyed brown locks at the nape of his neck. Instead, she pulls each knife from its place, settling for a blade that is more handle than anything else, and looks at the block before her.

Mal arches his brow to her in his usual fashion – part silent sign of question, part challenge – before picking up his own piece to resume carving.

She tries to ignore the way tendrils of hair fall across his forehead, and the way his tongue pokes out from one corner of his mouth. She brushes thoughts away, about his tongue that make her center flutter and warm, fidgeting with the unmarred cedar until she sees something take shape within it, and she knows. Somehow she knows how to pull the shape from within.

Tucking a hesitant bottom lip between her teeth, she picks up the knife and mimics the way Mal moves, thumb against the flat side of the steel, and sinks it into the wood. Just above her field of vision, she can make out the movement of him grinning. Her joy is short-lived; an overzealous cut slices through too easily and the blade breaks the skin on her thumb.

She hisses quietly and pulls her hand back at the sting, jamming her wounded thumb against her lips. Biting the flesh between her teeth numbs the pain, the same way she’d press her fingertips to her skin or lay a palm against her arm when she taught herself how to use a bow. She feels Mal’s movement before he even approaches, the air around her changing as he quickly rises to his feet and the candle between them flickers wildly.

He pulls her hand away from her mouth, taking it between his hands, and gently tugs her closer to the candlelight. His touch is remarkably gentle, pressing against her skin only long enough to see how deep the cut is, before drawing a thin ribbon of suede from one of the compartments in the leather roll. He holds it against her finger with his thumb, wrapping the wound snugly. He trims the excess with a sharpened dagger from his belt, marking a notch on the short end before gripping one piece between his teeth; he tugs at the suede and it rips down the length of itself, and he secures the makeshift bandage in place with knots.

Before he returns to his side of the table, he moves behind her, stooping to match her height while seated as best he can. She can feel his arms move as if to embrace her, eyes fluttering closed as her mind runs wild with possibility. Like a marionette with no strings, she lets him move her limbs to pick up the wood and blade again. Her breath is shallow, the warmth in her belly flashes like her skin is on fire, and she can feel his chin barely resting on her shoulder. The hair on his face tickles her ear, softer than she thought it would be, and she wants to scream with absolute glee.

Instead, her eyes wander back to where his hands touch hers, holding the wood and blade, pantomiming how to cut the wood away from her. He guides her thumb with his own, hands curled over hers. It’s just like peeling carrots with Kade when they were children, preparing a dinner of vegetable stew; less like peeling the skin from apples because of Kade’s distaste for them. The Rogue makes the same humming-sigh sound, only now it’s against her ear; the low, gritty vibrato of it sends a pleasant shiver across her skin. If she turned her head, she could kiss him.

The ship sways to one side, and Mal leans his cheek against the side of her head. For the briefest moment she swears that he sniffed her hair, but the moment is lost as the ship rights itself and sails straight, and Mal stands. He returns to the other side of the table, watching her peel long curls of wood several times over before resuming his task, winking at her before focusing on his carving.

.:.

She’s not sure when or how she set her things down, but her eyelids peel apart in slow motion, so heavy with sleep she can only see through tiny slits. The candle on the table is low, melted down to the brass holder, but there’s no sign of dawn. The slow rocking of the ship tempts her to return to her slumber, and her vision plunges back to darkness as her eyelids yield. She hears a rustling noise, followed by utterances in a tongue both foreign and familiar, before feeling gentle hands wedge themselves between her head and the wall. Skull cradled in Mal’s hand and half-awake, she can’t fight the grin that washes across her mouth, feeling him stuff the sack of grain underneath her. Tyril mutters something again, and she knows he was just robbed of his cushion.

Mal tucks a few strands of hair behind her pointed ear, the pads of his fingers lingering along the edge as they trail down to her earlobe. She wills herself not to open her eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath tickling her skin and making every cell of her being hum in pleasant anticipation.

“Safe passage through the dreamworld,” he whispers. “An offering to those above, may it guide you to pleasant visions.”

The last thing she remembers before drifting away to restful sleep is the way the Rogue’s soft lips tremble, pressing a kiss to her forehead.


End file.
